


o night divine

by allourheroes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Brief Torture, Brief character death, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, Demon Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, M/M, Some self-neglect, Soul Bond, post-season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2422244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allourheroes/pseuds/allourheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has given up on fixing himself. What is the point in a world without Dean Winchester?</p>
<p>Everything changes when he finds out Dean is still alive--and he uses the term loosely.</p>
<p>[Dean/Cas Mini-Bang 2014]</p>
            </blockquote>





	o night divine

**Author's Note:**

> This is my mini-bang for DCBB 2014. I know the season premiere is tonight, but I'm posting from work. I hope it's amazing though!
> 
> Art credit goes to [M4DN377orF8](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M4DN377orF8)! > [Go comment on the gorgeous art here where you can see it in all its wondrous detail!](http://muffinpolice.livejournal.com/1809.html)
> 
> [Masterpost at the DCBB Community for More Details](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/170866.html)

Castiel has never been very good at lying--although he may think otherwise. He does have some talent at deception, however. He tricked the people he cared most about, after all.

He carries on in Heaven as if everything is falling into place, as if he is an angel that performs his duties and will see the dream of Heaven restored.

He does not discuss the stolen grace that is slowly failing him and while others who were once in his faction may express curiosity about it, he tells them that he is fine. He knows otherwise, but there is no point in worrying them--should they worry for Castiel at all.

He realizes full well what is happening to him, can feel himself weakening day by day. He comes to expect the feeling of being that much more tired. It is not the same as the human feeling, but enough akin to it that Castiel thinks he can put a name to the experience.

Every act he performs here in Heaven costs him a piece of that borrowed essence, a fraction of his life force. Castiel is not bothered by this. Castiel goes on as if, for all intents and purposes, nothing is wrong.

Inside, however, he is consumed by grief. It is not for himself, however close he is brought to nonexistence with each passing moment, but for the man he pulled from Hell.

When Metatron had informed him of Dean’s demise, he could scarcely believe it. Metatron was a storyteller, after all, and to tell Castiel that he had murdered Dean Winchester would be a victory in and of itself. Then, Metatron had brought out the blade, still covered in Dean’s blood and Castiel--obtuse as he might be--had known there was no deception there.

Metatron had plunged an angel blade through Dean Winchester while Castiel had set up his trap in Heaven, and thus, Castiel won the battle and lost that which is most important to him.

Silently, he mourns, and the grief and regret take more of a toll on him than any expenditure of this failing grace ever could.

Castiel is not too ignorant to admit, to know without doubt, that everything he has done since he had touched that singular soul in Hell has been influenced by Dean Winchester. Whether he has been helping Dean and Sam re-shape fate outright, fighting for order in the only way he knows how, rebelling for and against Dean, or simply vying for his approval in acts of humanity, Dean has been the ever-present current flowing through Castiel’s veins.

He cannot return to Earth, no matter how tempting it may be. He has betrayed his only allies in so many ways, but this neglect is beyond unforgivable. Irredeemable. He blames himself for involving Dean further in the affairs of Heaven, for making Dean such an obvious target. He had begun to believe Metatron was focused solely on fighting him first and foremost--he hadn’t considered that this made Dean all the more vulnerable.

_“It was all about saving one human.”_ The words are as clear to him now as when Metatron had first uttered them. They echo in every action he takes to build a better world for his angelic kin. He has failed in the only way that truly mattered.

Even if the world became Hell on Earth, as they say, he would be fine so long as he fought at Dean’s side.

If it hadn’t been for his failing grace, had he the might he once possessed, he would search out Dean’s soul and restore him. If he had anything to exchange for Dean’s life, he would make a deal, but a dying angel isn’t worth much. He has no soul to sell, only the last remaining flickers of his brother’s grace.

Castiel does not care if he burns out.

Dean Winchester is dead.

~

Dean wakes and does not speak and Crowley watches, as relaxed as one can be when in the room with someone who has promised to kill him. He had been the one to place the blade in Dean’s hand, had tempted fate, and now he waits.

Patience is a virtue Crowley has never had any particular fondness for, however, and there’s only a moment spent twiddling his thumbs before he’s eyeing Dean curiously. “Anyone home?” he asks, resisting the urge to move closer.

Dean blinks and his grip tightens around the blade. Slowly, he sits up, and when he blinks again his eyes are almost human--but Crowley knows a demon when he sees one. You don’t get to be King of Hell if you can’t tell the difference between your average mortal meatbag and the damned.

“Have a nice nap?” Crowley says, as if he can’t stop himself. It’s too quiet, too tense. The sound of his own voice helps to fill the void, at least.

Dean turns to look at him finally, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Refreshing,” he says, sarcasm dripping from the word.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m glad this has worked out for you, princess.” No sooner have the words come that he begins to doubt them. He isn’t certain that he wanted this at all. There is a fear coiling in his belly that he did not expect.

When he had told Dean the story, however, the desire had been for Dean’s survival, despite everything. He had thought he knew what he would feel after all that had happened and all that he had encouraged, but the stain of his humanity has grown far larger than can be so easily removed. Seeing Dean like this should feel like some sort of victory, but the chill that goes down his spine as Dean toys with the blade is not one of excitement.

It is terror and, worse, remorse. It is an awful feeling and he pushes it down, repressing it with more difficulty than he once had with such things.

~

Sam’s call fails and, at a loss, he returns to Dean’s room, promises coming to his mind unbidden. All of the things he wishes to murmur to Dean’s body, to reassure them both that this is only temporary if there’s anything he can possibly do to change it, they all spill from his thoughts at the sight of his brother.

“You’re alive?” Sam says before his mind can warn him of why this may not be as it seems. His heart is caught in his throat, pounding away, as Dean turns to him.

He is greeted by a shocked sort of expression that twists into a grin. “Sammy,” Dean says. The first blade is in the relaxed curl of his fingers at his side.

“Stay back,” a familiar voice tells Sam, and he finds Crowley there in the corner of his room, his easy posture betrayed by the wariness in his expression.

“What did you do?” Sam asks and Crowley brings a scandalized hand to his chest.

Crowley scoffs. “What did _I_ do?” He looks at Dean like he’s dangerous, as if he can’t help it. He is trapped with two wild animals, each of which would likely enjoy ripping him apart and he wonders if he should choose sides.

Dean chuckles. “I think I’m just finally reaching my potential.” He blinks and his eyes are black and Sam’s heart is no longer pounding. It may not be beating at all.

“Dean,” he whispers, but his body moves on instinct, takes the knife into his hand and readies it.

“You gonna kill me, little brother?” the demon asks, his smile in the lingering tease of his lips as he turns serious.

Crowley glances between them. “Well, it seems you two boys have a few _issues_ to work on. I best get out of your hair, desperately in need of a trim as it is.”

“Crowley--” Sam tries, but the demon has escaped the room far more swiftly than he would’ve expected, given all the warding.

Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam. “Think we need a chaperone?” He takes a step forward and Sam takes an unconscious step back. Dean glances meaningfully down to their feet and back up again, then begins stalking towards him.

It surely isn’t the _right_ decision--it’s not even a conscious one--but Sam turns tail and Dean follows.

Sam leads him to a trap and Dean skillfully steps around it. “I’m not that easy,” Dean says with a smirk, but he doesn’t continue forward, close as he is to Sam.

“You gonna kill me?” Sam asks, a repetition of Dean’s words.

Dean bites his lip and is silent a moment. Slowly, he shakes his head. “Nah.” He still has the first blade but he changes his grip, swipes a hand over his face. “You and me, we’re the same. We’re monsters. Hell, we were raised to be monsters.”

“I’m not--”

“Aren’t you?” Dean asks, tilting his head. “All the shit you’ve done, Sammy? You may not be rockin’ the black eyes,” he quirks a smile, “ _anymore_ , but, seriously, man? You tried to make a deal not ten minutes ago.”

Sam swallows. He can’t deny the claims, there is no reason to when they both know the truth. “I can cure you,” he says.

“ _Cure_ me?” Dean laughs. “Why would I want that?”

~

Castiel cannot find Dean’s soul and this fact gnaws at him. He wonders if it is something Metatron has done, but he cannot bring himself to confront the other angel. It may simply be beyond his current abilities to search for Dean, as undeniable as the pull of his soul had previously been.

Deciding it is an inability to focus at this point in time, he tells himself to forget. He will repair Heaven in an attempt to make up for all that he has wrought upon it, as little as he is of use or even importance when their holy wars are over.

This, too, is for Dean. He will honor Dean: he will go on when all hope is lost.

Perhaps it is not honorable to be waiting for death, but Dean is not here to tell him so.

Dean had seemed to be waiting for it, too.

~

Sam isn’t hiding, he tells himself. And it is at least partially true. He knows that Dean could find him were he to make a real effort at searching, but the demon that is his brother seems content to be the lingering threat should Sam wish to wander out of his self-made safe zone. Their truce holds.

It means that he is eaten alive by his doubts.

Dean had called him a monster, declared that they were one and the same in corruption and Sam cannot help but to dwell on this; he was tainted from the start, after all.

Sam is not a demon but he has come closer than anyone to changing this simple fact without stepping over the line. He had fed on that energy, had been fattened like a lamb for slaughter so that he would be the perfect host for Lucifer, and although Lucifer is not himself a demon, that is more an argument of semantics than actual content. The only suitable host for the fallen angel is a human on the brink of crossing over to the damned, and Sam had straddled that edge tempestuously.

He doesn’t know why Dean hasn’t left the bunker yet but perhaps it is that he can’t. The wards here are old and complicated and they’ve never bothered figuring out all of the rules before--hadn’t _needed_ to--but Sam doesn’t really think this to be the reason.

Dean is biding his time, and although Sam doesn’t yet know why, he is certain it can be for nothing good.

~

Castiel knows that most all of the energy he has left will be expended in this journey, but as he knows it will be his last, it no longer matters. This is the end of Castiel and he will spend it as close Dean Winchester as he can. He does not know where to find what little must remain of him. The body would’ve been burned, but he will find somewhere suitable. There are few places he had been with Dean that do not hold significance for him, if not for more than the effect Dean’s presence has always had.

He is drawn to the bunker. He will say his apologies as his goodbye to Sam Winchester, if the man is still there. Whatever he may yet do for him, he will. Nothing can make up for the loss, but he is long past due when it comes to taking up the responsibility he had in the tragedy with the other most affected by it.

He arrives at the door and finds himself less prepared than he had previously thought. The grace is failing him and he is exhausted, but this must be the means to his end. If he does not make his amends with the Winchesters as best as he now is able, he is not worthy even of death.

Castiel knocks on the door and wonders if it is enough. There is no answer, not for a long time, and Castiel can wait no longer. He tries the door and is surprised to find it yielding open to him. Looking around, he finds no threat to follow him in, no apparent reason for it, and this only clouds his mind with further suspicion. The bunker is a hideout the Men of Letters designed to be safe from outsiders, unnoticeable, even. He is cautious as he steps inside, shutting the door tightly behind him.

It takes a moment, but he hears a sound--just the shuffling of feet, of fabric, the clinking of glass. He descends the stairs and a shape begin to take form, there is someone there although he cannot yet decide who it is. He assumes Sam, if only by the relaxed pose the figure has taken. It still doesn’t seem to quite fit, but he cannot fathom who else it might be, although something in him seems to _know_. He steps into the room and he is met with a sight that leaves him frozen.

It’s Dean.

It isn’t Dean.

His true face is the same. He may be a demon, but he is still Dean through and through. The sight burns through Castiel’s heart like the blade Metatron had held before him.

Guilt and regret tie themselves in knots his stomach, but he cannot bring himself to feel ashamed of the overwhelming relief that sweeps through him. “Dean,” he says.

Dean smiles, and it seems at first the easygoing smirk of the man who shut out his pain for the sake of appearances and drowned himself in liquor and women. There is something else there, however, and it is something sinister that makes Castiel’s own expression falter. The upward quirk of his lips is lost, replaced with the tensing of his jaw and there is the clench of some invisible force tightening around his heart.

“Cas,” Dean drawls. “Good to see you, buddy.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to him. “You’re alive,” he settles on finally.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Is that all anyone has to say to me?”

He is a threat, something decidedly angelic in instinct tells Castiel, but Castiel feels almost delirious with joy at the sight of a _demon_. The deliriousness could be more appropriately attributed to the complete and utter collapse of his very being, and perhaps he is delusional even now. Dean Winchester is a demon. It’s like some horrible joke his brothers would love to torture him with.

Castiel is not too proud to admit that Dean’s change is preferable to his death, even as the very thought defies everything that is left of his nature.

He is not quite gaping, but the expression is close enough.

“New look got you tongue-tied?” Dean asks, jutting his chin forward defiantly. His eyes are black and Castiel misses that beautiful hazel-green.

“Yes,” Castiel says simply. Something allows him to escape, to violently wrench himself away from this.

Dean watches Castiel disappear with obvious interest, even pleasure.

He does not follow.

~

Castiel finds himself just outside the doors again, adrenaline his glorious savior.

And yet...perhaps he can ask for the assistance of another.

“Hannah,” he manages and he doubts there is any grace left in him. There is barely life.

She appears to him with the flutter of wings and he is grateful. “Castiel, what--” she begins before taking in his condition. He sees the concern in her gaze for him, but he ignores the question that lingers there unfinished yet obvious nonetheless. 

“Take me to Metatron,” he tells her.

Hannah hesitates, but nods. She grabs hold of him and they are both in Heaven again, but not the prison.

“I told you to take me to Metatron,” he grits out.

Hannah ignores him. “There isn’t much I can do, but this should hold you together a little longer.”

With that, Castiel feels the murmur of energy re-acquainting itself with his being. It isn’t much and the feeling of it is slightly incongruous with his own, but it allows him to breathe a little easier. “What did you do?” he asks. “You can’t--” He shakes his head. “It isn’t right.”

“You were dying,” she says. “I hadn’t known you were so close.” Her meaning is obvious. Apparently, it hasn’t escaped her notice that he has done nothing about his failing grace. 

Castiel’s jaw tenses. “It didn’t matter before.” He straightens himself up and stalks towards the prison.

Hannah watches with all the severity of her worry. She is weakened by her sacrifice, however, and finds that she does not wish to fight with him when he is possessed by such a passion as she hasn’t seen since his defense of Dean Winchester. It’s almost inspiring.

~

“Castiel,” Metatron greets. “What a nice surprise.” He folds up his glasses and presses them into his shirt pocket, placing his book to the side. He gives Castiel a once-over, taking in his disheveled appearance. “I would’ve thought you’d be running out of juice by now. Shouldn’t you have gone to die by what’s-his-name’s side or whatever?” His smile is not nearly as friendly as it appears.

Castiel goes over the words in his head. He has never been the best at distinguishing lies from the truth, but he senses no deception here. There may not be any. “Dean Winchester,” he corrects, the name pulled from him unbidden at such blatant disrespect.

“Yes,” Metatron agrees thoughtfully, a finger to his chin. “That one. You know…the _dead guy_.”

“Dean isn’t dead,” Castiel bites out. He wonders if Metatron already knows this, what else Metatron might know.

Metatron smirks, this is the first time he’s gotten something real out of Castiel since his imprisonment--not that Castiel had been one to visit him much. “Oh, really? I’m certain he’s not _alive_.”

“He’s--” Castiel stops. He thinks of the thing that was Dean-- _is_ Dean--and his hand clenches into a fist.

Metatron takes note, unfortunately. “He’s what, Castiel?” Metatron asks with the intensity of a hunter honing in on his prey. “Worm food?”

Castiel gives an abortive shake of his head. “He isn’t dead,” he says again.

“See, now, I think he is. I sunk that blade into him like a hot knife through butter, Castiel.” He is teasing him, _mocking_ him; it is the best way he knows how to draw out answers from the angel. If he’s honest, this has begun to consume far more of his interest than he had anticipated--the cherry on top of his continued ruination of an already ruined angel. “Straight through his pathetic human heart.”

Castiel’s eyes burn as he looks upon the speaker of Heaven. “Dean is--” Something in his eyes shutters, closes off.

“A demon,” Metatron guesses suddenly, and Castiel’s jaw tenses. He laughs to himself for far longer than necessary.

“Shut up.”

“This is delightful!” Metatron exclaims, wiping joyous tears from his eyes. “This is better than I could’ve imagined. I hope someone is writing this down: Misguided angel--would-be _god_ \--sacrifices everything for a _demon_.” It gives him ideas.

“I’ll save him,” Castiel says earnestly.

Metatron tilts his head. “I gotta say your conviction is admirable, Castiel, but I have to ask you one thing,” he pauses, pleased with the way it adds to the drama of the moment. When he speaks, his words are as sharp as the blade he pushed through Dean’s ribcage: “Is there anything left to save?” He examines his fingernails nonchalantly, eyes flickering up surreptitiously to see the effect he’s had on Castiel.

Castiel does not respond and stalks from the prison after little hesitation.

Metatron smiles to himself.

~

Castiel senses the changes Hannah has effected in him and takes stock of himself.

There is no flame, but the embers are no longer dying out, steady enough to sustain him. It is akin to being human, but there is something divine that lingers there. She has given him a piece of herself, her own grace, and Castiel has no idea why she might hold any belief in him yet. He has disappointed her and she is still willing to save his life at a cost to her own.

He feels defeated, but he cannot allow himself to waste yet another chance at saving Dean Winchester. Castiel calls for his sister and she is there.

“Castiel,” Hannah says, giving him a curt nod.

He looks at her and it’s as if he’s seeing her for the first time. “I just wanted to thank you,” he says. He squeezes his eyes shut, thinking of how close he had been indeed. She doesn’t say anything and he opens his eyes to look at her. “I was willing to die.”

“Because you can’t live in a world without Dean Winchester,” Hannah fills in, a bitterness to her tone that Castiel remembers from the night he had lost his would-be army. She still sees it as a weakness. To sacrifice so much for a single human being--now demon, she isn’t blind to what has happened--goes against everything an angel should believe in. She cannot understand why she herself yet holds so much belief in Castiel when he has tethered himself to free will and Dean Winchester.

Castiel blinks. “I suppose it sounds ridiculous when you put it that way,” he admits rather sheepishly.

“I’m glad I stopped following you.” 

Awaiting further reprimanding, Castiel braces himself.

“I am also glad I could save your life.”

In surprise, Castiel’s gaze meets hers. “Hannah…”

“I don’t understand your obsession with the righteous man, Castiel, but if you need help with that or...anything else, I’m here. You are still my brother.” She sighs.

“Thank you,” he tells her, and he means it. “But, if I’m honest, I doubt there’s anything either of us can do for Dean now.”

~

Sam is somewhat surprised when his phone starts ringing and Castiel’s old number appears on the screen. “Hello?” he answers.

“Where are you?”

“The bunker,” he replies, slightly confused.

He hears a sigh on the other end of the line. “Where exactly?”

“Um.” Sam looks around. “My room? It’s down the hall on the right from the-- Oh.” Castiel has appeared and he scrambles to get up. He takes in Castiel’s expression and sighs. “You know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Castiel asks and Sam reads the anger and hurt clearly and finds that he isn’t averse to feeling the same.

“I haven’t _seen_ you, Cas. In over a _month_. You just disappeared again and I didn’t even know if you were alive.” He had thought about praying to him though, a few times. It was just too hard to feel like he was complicating matters even more than they needed to be. It still is. Castiel hadn’t exactly been in the best position to _help_ , however.

Castiel’s jaw tenses. “I was…” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I didn’t know.” His shoulders hunch and he breathes out. “I tried to find out if Metatron had anything to do with this, but he didn’t know--not until I...he guessed it.”

Sam clears his throat. “The first blade,” he says softly.

“The mark of Cain.” Castiel nods. “I should’ve known.”

“Can you…” Sam waves his hand. “Can you fix him?”

Castiel looks away, shakes his head. “I don’t have my grace, Sam. I’m...useless.” He clenches his hands into fists at his sides. Perhaps...perhaps if he were to regain his grace, things would be different. Angels can kill demons with a touch, but curing a demon is still almost unheard of. He hadn’t known it was truly possible until Sam had reached the end of his trials.

Crowley is their only living evidence now of even the _possibility_ of curing a demon, but Castiel is weak as he is. An angel with his own grace is far more useful, although he does not know if it is possible for him to attain new grace, to somehow rebuild his own.

~

There seems to be a long while--too long for Castiel, at least--in which they make little progress in finding a new type of cure. Impatience or something akin to it begins to gnaw at the core of the angel’s being.

Castiel cannot stay away. He appears in the bunker but does not show himself, just watches. Dean is quiet, contemplative. Castiel does not know what he’s thinking, but the intensity of it is difficult to be around.

There is no one there for him to give him reason to wear any one of his well-worn façades and there is a tension that leaves Castiel unable to pretend things will be okay. He has been given no proof, although the mere thought of giving up on Dean Winchester is one he cannot abide. He will give up on himself, but not Dean. Never Dean.

He flees yet again, with more questions than answers.

~

“Back again?” Metatron asks, reclining on the bench of his cell. He peers at Castiel curiously and when Castiel says nothing, he sits up. “Cat got your tongue?”

Castiel glares at him and Metatron’s lips curl into a smirk. “Metatron,” Castiel says.

Metatron’s expression takes on the guise of sympathy. “No luck in curing Dean?” He tisks. “You know, I feel _bad_ for you,” he says, but then he smiles, a hint of tooth to it. “Almost.”

“Perhaps if you were of… _help_ ,” Castiel forces out, “we could work out a deal.” He doesn’t tell Metatron he lacks the confidence to try, that seeing Dean again had left him feeling like a frightened child--should he have ever known what that was like.

Metatron clasps a hand to his chest in shock. “A _deal_?” He grins. “I’m not sure you have that kind of authority anymore, Castiel.”

Castiel looks away, the tension in his body easy to read. He will once again do _anything_ for Dean Winchester and Metatron finds this _precious_. He is lucky--as this means the Voice is willing to throw him a bone.

“I didn’t destroy your grace, Castiel, I _used_ it.” Metatron heaves his gaze upwards, his fingers flitting around. “It’s around here…somewhere. It was the glue that held the doors of heaven together and now…” He shrugs.

“I don’t believe you,” Castiel says, but there is a tremor there that Metatron _loves_ the sound of. Castiel will only make an attempt at saving himself because it means the possibility of saving _Dean_ and Metatron can use this to his advantage.

“Sure, sure,” Metatron pretends to agree, idling away at nothing. “But what if I’m telling you the truth?” He looks at Castiel. “Gee, I sure would feel silly if I were you.”

“How would I find it?” Castiel asks.

“What good does it do _me_ to tell you?”

“What do you want?” Castiel knows where this is going.

“How do _I_ know you can come through on a deal?” Metatron returns.

Castiel shifts, his thoughts a mess. “It depends on the deal,” he settles on, and the way the corners of Metatron’s mouth twist up and the general toothiness of Metatron’s smile unsettle him greatly.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

~

Crowley is panicked and he wants the sweet nectar of humanity to bloom in him, has the itch of an addict for the adrenaline of emotion, the undeniable pull of it. At the same time, the ease of having no soul of which to speak--at least in the colloquial sense--would mean that he would be free from even this desire of it. He does not want this now. He thinks of giving up his son, however, and frowns. Even though he has not seen him since he set him free in the modern world, there is a fondness to the memory. He had saved his son from his fate and he isn’t certain if he has done the same for Dean Winchester or if he has doomed the man instead.

There is no way for him to know the course of events that would have taken place had Dean Winchester not taken up the first blade, had Metatron not killed him in their brief skirmish, but his preoccupation had initially been with Abaddon. It was necessary to rid the world of the knight or he’s certain it would not be this world any longer. Although it is uncertain if she could have--or would have--truly brought on the apocalypse, Abaddon’s ideas for the Earth did not fall in line with Crowley’s own. In fact, his choice to rule over Hell can be considered his very own good deed. After all, Crowley rid them of the blatant torture that had been the status quo for so long and with Crowley in charge, humanity as a whole isn’t at such high risk.

He convinces himself for one brief moment that the course of events he conspired to bring about were actually rather noble, but the lie is an obvious one. Crowley had never been certain as to what would happen when the first blade--should it be all that it was cracked up to be--was brought into the fold and the damage it might wreak upon the being known as Dean Winchester, but he had enough reason to suspect this might be the outcome.

Dean knows that he is not all that he once was and Crowley must change this if he means to survive. He must become his old self again or he must change Dean, but there is little he knows that can do the latter. He had never known that curing a demon was even possible until the act had nearly been completed on him and that had been terrifying.

Crowley sees the way Dean looks and it is not truly demonic yet. No matter how twisted his human soul may have been to become this, he has only been a demon for what seems like a moment in the face of Crowley’s own centuries. He has not caused nearly enough damage to undo a lifetime of do-goodery that had preceded his demonic rise. No, Dean Winchester is still in there in all the ways that have always counted and Crowley isn’t opposed to helping Sam find a way to do this.

They must find something that will touch Dean’s soul--clarify it once more. With what has been done to him, Crowley does not doubt the possibility. Dean’s state is close enough to flux between human and demon--much like Crowley’s own had been, might _still_ be--that there is hope.

~

Castiel goes back. He can’t help himself. He needs to see Dean so badly it aches, drawing him to the demon yet again.

He does not hide himself this time. He appears before Dean and the demon eyes him thoughtfully.

“Missed me, huh?” Dean says with a wink and Castiel finds himself suddenly flustered.

Castiel tries to speak, but no words come, and Dean’s expression turns wicked.

“You want me,” the demon says. “You’ve wanted me since you pried my soul”--he smirks at the word--“from the pit.” He licks his lips, bites them. “You angels act so high and mighty, but you want a piece of me just as bad as everyone else. Hell, more.”

Castiel’s heartbeat quickens and he inhales sharply. “That’s not--”

Dean tilts his head. “Isn’t it?” He stalks closer, until he’s as close as Castiel had so often been to him. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, you know that?”

Castiel cannot move, but if he doesn’t, he isn’t sure what will happen. Dean leans in and Castiel knows he should back up, at the very least. He stands his ground.

“Cas…” Dean says, and it’s a rough whisper and it’s close--so close, so close--and Castiel should turn his head away but Dean is chuckling, is pressing his lips to Castiel’s. The kiss is short and only when Dean pulls back does Castiel realize he is swaying unconsciously forward, chasing it. “You taste good,” Dean tells him, his breath ghosting over Castiel’s lips.

“I’ll save you,” Castiel says, and it sounds borderline hysterical even to his own ears as his hands clutch Dean’s sleeves.

Dean rubs his nose just under Castiel’s jaw, along the line of it. “You say you wanna save me but I think you mean fuck me.” He pauses, feeling the tremor that courses through the angel. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “I think I got something for that.”

“Dean,” Castiel manages. “Dean, this isn’t--”

“Isn’t what?” Dean asks, pulling back to meet Castiel’s eyes. “It isn’t me?” His eyes flicker to black. “This _is_ me now.”

Castiel lets Dean kiss him again and knows how wrong it is that he wants this. Dean opens his mouth and Castiel puts up no resistance, pushes himself into the kiss wholeheartedly with a groan. He drowns in sensation as Dean’s mouth moves down his jaw, his throat.

“Maybe you should take this damn thing off,” Dean suggests. He doesn’t wait for an answer, yanking the trenchcoat from Castiel’s shoulders and drawing out a sharp cry in the process. He tosses it to the floor. “Good,” he whispers. “Good.”

“I can’t-- We can’t do this,” Castiel tries, mustering an ounce of resolve.

“You sure?” Dean asks, although it doesn’t sound at all like a question. “What if you pretend this is that night before we caught Raphael? The holy fire, remember?” He smiles, and it is painfully reminiscent of the old Dean. “You’re a little less virginal now, but, hey, we can both be something we’re not.” He looks down, then up at Cas from beneath his eyelashes. “I can help you with your little problem,” he says and it sounds so earnest Castiel can almost pretend.

“Stop,” Castiel says, but his voice shakes.

Dean’s fingers toy with the waistband of his slacks. “Stop what?” His brows furrow. “I need you, Cas.” 

There is the glint of otherness in his eyes for a flash, but Castiel is not too proud to admit his weakness. Those words from those lips have broken him before and he is already so weak. “Dean.”

“Sh, sh, sh, that’s it.” Dean kisses him again and his hands are almost gentle as they undo buttons and push aside cotton but they are not quite. Dean’s fingertips are hot against his stomach but Castiel shivers at the touch. “I got ya,” Dean murmurs, his lips stopping any attempt at protest before a thought even comes to fruition.

Dean is kissing him and Dean-- and Dean-- and Dean-- and Dean _isn’t dead_ but is instead here in his arms and he fumbles desperately. He doesn’t manage much but to get Dean’s fly open, to feel muscle and bone and strength.

Dean exhales harshly and turns Cas around, bending him over the table he had leaned against earlier. He lets out a low whistle. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted this.” He fits his palm over the curve of a cheek. “Denied it for so long but then in the dark, I’d think of you like this: spread out under me, pliant, willing, whining. _Begging_ for it.” He chuckles. “Used to keep me up at night.” He slides his cock over the cleft of Castiel’s ass for emphasis, trailing precome.

A soft sound forces its way out of Castiel’s throat and Dean sucks two fingers into mouth, knowing saliva is woefully insufficient and not giving much of a damn about it. He pushes them into Castiel, twisting them until they slide in. He groans at the feel of it, watching them disappear into Castiel’s body and deciding very quickly that this is enough. He pulls them free and spits into his hand, rubbing it hurriedly over his cock and aligning himself. Dean works himself in with a grunt.

It hurts, it _burns_ , but they are so close now that Castiel can barely concentrate on that. He whimpers and he isn’t certain himself whether it’s because of the pain or because he never expected this to actually happen.

He is fucked with his pants around his ankles and Dean’s zipper biting into the flesh of his ass cheek and he is greedy for it. He doesn’t care about anything else but this. Dean’s fingers dig into his sides, his hips, pulling him back onto Dean’s cock as he does his best to help, scrabbling for purchase on the table so that he can get Dean in him as deep as he can possibly go.

The idea of it has bloomed like a desert flower in Castiel’s mind, bright and impossible to ignore in the wasteland of all that he knows to be important. There is nothing more important than Dean and this feeling, as if he might split open on his cock. He can’t speak, only gasp at the force of it and hope somehow it never ends.

“I want you to forget everything but this, everything but _me_ ,” Dean growls into his ear. The table is heavy but the legs scrape against the floor as it slides and he doesn’t let up.

“Yes,” Castiel manages. He can barely feel the aching swell of his own cock as Dean fucks him, but it doesn’t matter. He is impossibly close to Dean, impossibly close to--

“ _Fuck_ , Cas,” Dean grunts as his hips piston in a staccato rhythm, as he empties himself into the angel beneath him with the delight of corruption tainting his pleasure in the most delicious of ways. He pants and he does not touch Castiel’s cock, nor does he move.

He looks to Castiel’s hands, where his finger nails are carving into the wood. He can feel Castiel quivering all around him.

Dean smirks, presses himself against the length of Castiel’s bare back, knowing it must be uncomfortable the way the fabric of his shirt rubs against the mass of sensitive flesh. “You’re gonna come like this, aren’t you? With a demon in you?” He presses a kiss to Castiel’s shoulder blade--a comfort, a _trick_ \--and his hands trail down Castiel’s sides. “I know how close you are,” he murmurs. “All it’ll take is the touch of my hand.” His fingertips tease Castiel’s hip and the angel presses back against him.

Castiel is breathing heavily, hoping his body will send the message he’s so ashamed of as he arches up.

Dean chuckles. “All you gotta do is beg, Cas, and I’ll touch you.” He watches the muscles in Castiel’s back shift, waits. “Just say the word.”

Castiel makes a small noise, as if trying to stop himself, but then the words spill from his lips as if he cannot stop them. “ _Please_ , Dean, I need you to-- to _touch_ \-- please, please, I--”

He is cut off by the feel of Dean’s hand wrapping around his cock, stroking him slowly.

It is enough. Collapsing with a groan, Castiel comes.

Dean extricates himself, his laugh dry and his expression amused and dazed both as Castiel struggles to stand back up, legs wobbling underneath him. “You gonna run again?” he asks.

Castiel opens his mouth but Dean shushes him.

“Don’t give me any of that noble _bullshit_. Just…” He shakes his head. When he looks at Castiel again, his eyes are black. “ _Run_.”

~

Dean isn’t certain why it had never occurred to him before to actually act upon his desire for Castiel. He had brushed it off and assumed that it was due only to the angel’s inability to realize the importance of personal space or, perhaps, the way he looked at him sometimes. It seems so ridiculous to him now--all those human notions of impropriety he had before the change, the notions that had kept him from his desires. Suddenly, however, it is more appealing than ever as he can bring the angel down to the brink of ruination. Dean can tempt Castiel in the deliciously sadistic ways that matter all the more for a demon to an angel.

The fact that Castiel is in a male vessel would have deterred the old Dean-- _had_ deterred him--always so afraid of what their father would’ve thought of him, even after the man was long gone. It had stopped him many a time, held back by the idea of it being wrong, of what it might mean if he were to act on his feelings for another man. He had come close to accepting it on an occasion or two, but then he would hear a disparaging remark that would set him straight again, so to speak.

Humans can be such prudes, Dean thinks now.

He wants more.

~

Castiel breathes out slowly, attempting to bring himself the semblance of calm. Things had gone horribly awry. His plan had been to help Dean but all he had done was allow himself to be defiled, to defile himself and the once-righteous man in an act of hedonism with a demon-- _with Dean_ , his mind so helpfully murmurs in awe. He could not take hold of his own desires and was left powerless to what he would not previously admit to himself.

If he is to ever get Dean back, how is he to explain so great a lapse in his judgment? How is he to apologize for _this_?

~

“I think it can be undone,” Crowley says suddenly and Sam whips his head around to stare at the demon in confusion.

“What?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Squirrel. Keep up.”

Sam’s face scrunches up as he processes Crowley’s words. “You think Dean can be cured, too,” he says, not quite a question.

Crowley sniffs, smooths the lapel of his blazer. “Perhaps.” He looks anywhere but at Sam.

Breathing in, Sam feels the hope that has buried itself under layers of doubt burgeoning up, but he will not be lost to it yet--not when it is nothing more than his whim in the ways of actually helping Dean. He opens his mouth to ask how, but another inquiry seems to take precedence as he asks instead, “Why do you care?”

Crowley stares at him, mouth firming into a thin line. “I want to help.”  
“Why?” Sam says.

Crowley lets out a long-suffering sigh, glaring holes through the hunter. “Are you thick?” he asks. “I want to _help_.” He pauses, adding, “And it’s all _your_ fault.”

“Feeling guilty?” Sam smirks at the demon and Crowley rolls his eyes yet again.

~

Hannah’s energy has aided him, has lasted him longer than it should have, and perhaps he should feel guilty that he uses it now to come at Dean’s call.

A whisper of his name-- _Castiel_ , not _Cas_ , no, not when his demon derives such pleasure from his conflict--and Castiel is there.

“I knew you’d come,” Dean says with a smirk, and he holds Castiel down even though there is no fight there this time.

He leaves the angel wasting grace trying to knit back bone and muscle and sinew afterwards.

~

“Hannah,” Castiel greets. “You said you would help me.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

He hands her a note and she looks up at him.

“Your grace?” she asks.

He nods. “If I ask too much of you--”

Hannah stops him. She looks down at the note and quirks a smile. “My wings have not been clipped, Castiel. This will be easy.”

Although the dig is well-deserved, it still gives him pause. He’s been so stupid--so trusting and so certain of his own righteousness--in the past that he has brought this upon himself, that he deserves worse.

Hannah sees his discomfort and does nothing to alleviate it. She may be willing to help him, but she is not suddenly ignorant of all that he has done. If anything, she has learned more about him since making her choice. Castiel can be largely held accountable for the destruction of Heaven and her ejection from her home, but he is similarly responsible for the rebirth her home with a better sense of what it is _supposed_ to be that had been so long lost.

She murmurs a few quick phrases of Enochian and seems to find what she is looking for. “There are sigils I must break, but are you certain you can handle all that power again?” It is concern and mischievousness playing an unexpected duet, and Castiel nods.

Only after does he hesitate, call her again to tell her that she should begin the process slowly. He can almost hear her laughter in the flutter of wings.

~

Castiel returns to the human plain and wonders if he wants rest or something else.

He thinks of the trap they had set for him. Dean and Sam and Bobby all standing around him, staring at him with suspicion as holy flames rise up around him.

Could he do the same to Dean now?

Containing him could be necessary in order to spare humanity this new Dean’s influence, his _wrath_ \--as Dean has had a hard time telling right from wrong for far longer than he has been a demon and this changed state is sure to only exacerbate the issue.

He is not setting Dean up, merely preparing the means to should the situation become dire, he reasons.

Dean finds him and Castiel isn’t certain if that is what he had wanted or not. It is suspicious and Castiel’s reaction only more so. Castiel is nervous, to his own annoyance, and Dean finds it to be a delightful game he has here: he can pin down the angel so easily since his wings have become all but useless.

Dean cages him in and Castiel grabs his wrists and struggles desperately, hostile enough to have Dean shoving him hard against the wall.

The demon thinks this has solved his problems, but then Castiel is swinging at him and he swings back, knocks the air out of him. 

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asks, voice dragged out of him as he looks down at Castiel.

The angel does not speak, perhaps cannot speak and Dean almost regrets what he’s done, but then there is a choking sound. “I’m returning the favor.” He swallows and Dean watches the bob of his Adam’s apple through the motion, the obvious pain there. It had felt so good to torture him, even when Castiel had refused to give up, but it is becoming a tiresome thing, he thinks.

What other reason could there be for him to hesitate, to even think of stopping? “Stupid son of a bitch,” Dean says, dragging the blade down across Castiel’s chest, from the dip of his collarbone to his navel.

Castiel lets out something between a laugh and a cough. The words are so familiar though, it’s comforting. “Good. I might’ve begun to assume you weren’t in there.”

Dean nearly plunges the blade through Castiel’s stomach, but then his fun would be over. “Oh, I’m here,” he says instead. He changes tactics, black eyes coming to meet Castiel’s. “This is me, Cas: _Dean_.” He laughs. “Did you think there was something you could do? Did you think you could change me?” He licks his lips, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Maybe you thought you could change me since I changed you.” His smile turns wicked. “Do you think about all you’ve done for me and regret it now that I’m this? Or do you spend more time thinking about all the things the new me will do to you that the old me never would’ve?”

There is only the harshness of their breathing, then the clatter of the blade to the floor.

Dean grabs Castiel’s chin and, with a chuckle, kisses him until a needy sound escapes the angel’s throat. “That’s what I thought,” he whispers, and lays his hands upon Castiel’s less-than-holy body.

“ _Hey_.”

The interruption isn’t wholly unexpected, what with their cohabitation of the bunker, but Sam isn’t wanted here. Dean can _have_ what he wants and although Sam’s presence isn’t ideal, it is a temporary delay at best. Sam is a hunter but so was Dean, trained together by their father. Dean is certain getting the upper hand should Sam try to save the angel would be easy enough.

He therefore turns his full attention from Castiel to his brother. There is a look in his eye that Castiel doesn’t trust, not when a life other than his own is at risk. Without thinking, he grabs Dean’s arm and it’s as if a shockwave goes through him--and Dean, if the demon’s reaction is anything to go by.

“The hell was that?” Dean shoves Castiel away, blinking hard. He shakes his head, as if the feeling will go away when he does.

It is Dean who turns tail now.

~

Dean is out of the bunker for what seems to be the first occasion in a month. His truce with Sam should still be in place--he has held his side of the bargain and so has Sam despite how he might feel now. He has no doubt that Sam is hatching some hopeless scheme of returning him to what he once was but they’ve never cured a demon, not fully. He tells himself that he _likes_ thinking that they can’t.

In any case, he doesn’t go far. Hell, he _can’t_.

Whatever Castiel had done to him is still stinging through him and it makes him sick.

He’s dizzy and Dean can barely remember what it means to be stumbling drunk anymore, but there’s that same loss of control.

Maybe that’s why he leaves, thinking that fresh air will help to clear his mind. Instead he finds sparks of thoughts, of _emotions_ , that come unbidden as he tilts his face to the sky.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Dean thinks-- _knows_ \--that humanity is scoured away like fresh dirt when someone changes, so where had these things come from?

He bites his lip and does not ask, just retches his guts out in the woods and wishes for a drink strong enough to wash it all away.

~

Castiel goes AWOL after the thing with Dean and does not explain himself to Sam. It leaves the man desperately questing for other answers, for _others_ that might be of help. Crowley spends a great deal of time with him--perhaps too _much_ \--but does not offer much in the way of suggestion, although he tells Sam he is _thinking_.

Sam finds the word seems to sound like “scheming” when it comes from Crowley.

“What about Cain?” Sam asks. “Can he help us? Any…I don’t know, advice he might have from personal experience?”

“He isn’t much of a _sharer_ ,” Crowley bites.

Sam shrugs, brows furrowing. “But isn’t it worth a shot?”

“ _Certainly_ ,” Crowley says. “You go on ahead, moose--get your answers. If he’s still around.”

Sam purses his lips. It’s not that he _minds_ it so much as the thought of meeting Cain makes him slightly anxious. “You’ve dealt with him before.”

“I believe he associates me best with the words ‘shoot on sight.’”

Sam breathes out harshly through his nose. “Tell me how to find him.”

~

Maybe it’s a stupid idea, but Sam is willing to try. The closer he gets to Cain’s house, the more he begins to question this decision, but he does not falter. He will do anything to get his brother back. Perhaps if Dean was at peace, it would be different, but he knows that it’s unlikely. The Winchesters, for all the death and destruction around them, have never been very good at letting go of each other.

Besides, Dean is a demon now. That definitely falls firmly into the realm of his responsibility.

He gathers up his courage and knocks.

The door opens up and although Sam has never met Cain, he only gets out “Dean” before Cain interrupts.

“I want to be left out of it,” Cain says and Sam frowns as Cain starts to shut the door.

“Dean isn’t… He isn’t human,” Sam tries, hoping sympathy is something that will convince Cain to listen.

Cain pauses, leaving the door open a crack for him to peek out. He hums thoughtfully. “It’s taken him now. All that rage, that power, it’s in him now and it always will be, if you ask me. There’s nothing stronger than that.” Even in the darkness of shadow, Sam can make out the shift in his expression before he says, “Well, almost.” He shuts the door, adding, “Now get off my property,” and disappears inside.

Sam steps forward, although it does no good. “Wait!” he shouts. “What does that mean?” There’s no response and Sam lets out a defeated sigh. “Please?”

He walks up the road to where the car is parked and Crowley, leaned against the car, raises an eyebrow. “No luck?” he asks, although his tone implies that the answer is as expected.

Huffing, Sam opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat without responding and Crowley follows suit. He starts the car before he deflates. “He knows something.”

Crowley shrugs. “Of course he does. He’s _Cain_.”

~

Sam is tracing over a line in book, then cross-referencing it with another in the pile. He reads through a paragraph about soul bonds which seem to be more often than not romantic in nature but the signs are similar enough that the idea gives him pause. There isn’t much to go on about angels in general and even less about their tampering with the souls of humans, but Sam theorizes possibilities and checks the text again before he’s calling Cas and hoping the angel will actually show.

“That thing you did, what was it?” Sam asks as soon as the angel appears. “When you--” He shrugs his shoulders. “ _Zapped_ him?”

“I’m not certain,” Castiel admits. He looks down at his hand as if it holds some sort of answer. “I think there’s something in me. It’s like a put him back together and something stayed. Some...remainder.”

“Of what?” Sam questions, although he’s got a fair idea.

Castiel grimaces, his eyes closing as he chases the feeling. “His soul.”

“You’re...connected to Dean?” Sam glances back down at one of his books. “Can you use that to cure him?”

Something clicks as he works out his new knowledge of the facts. He had never considered this aspect of their connection before, had not thought it would mean anything other than the sentimental. A whisper tells him otherwise. “It would kill him.” He has not finished processing the words before they are said, but when they are out, he knows them to be true.

“Can’t you just...bring him back?”

“Not-- not like this. I would need the full energy of my grace.” Although this is not fact, he is discomfited by the idea of killing Dean. He needs more conviction in the notion that it is temporary, _momentary_ , before he shall even dare to try or bear even the idea of it.

~

“I hear we’ve got a go on our operation,” Crowley says, grinning.

“I can’t.”Crowley stares at Castiel. “What do you mean you _can’t_?” Anger rises in his tone and Castiel glares back.

Sam looks between them, but his focus is on Cas. He bites his lip.

“I mean that I _can’t_ ,” the angel reiterates.

Crowley is about ready to tear his hair out, frustration bleeding through every word. “Well, why not?”

Castiel frowns slightly, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m an angel. I can’t...make him into something else. I can’t touch his soul. Not without his permission.”

“You’d be _curing_ him,” Sam says. “Shouldn’t there be some sort of...angelic loophole?”

“I need consent.”

“Your bruises say he doesn’t need the same,” Crowley counters. He almost regrets it when the words hit Castiel like a truck and he gets a pained look, shuttering himself off.

Sam’s brows furrow in concern. “Cas...if this is asking too much…” He doesn’t know what exactly is happening between his brother and the angel but given the strange relationship they’ve always had, the feeling isn’t exactly a new one for him. He just knows that it has just twisted itself into something else.

“No,” Castiel replies quickly, the intensity of it leaving Sam and Crowley silent. In that moment, he thinks he knows what it’s like to be pitied. He has never paid enough attention to take note of such things before. “It’s for Dean.”

Sam clears his throat, changes the subject. “Any luck with your grace?”

Castiel nods. “It’s coming back to me now.” It had been spread across Heaven in Metatron’s act and the energy of his being is gathering itself unto him again. He doesn’t notice himself getting stronger, although the opposite effect had been so obvious, but it is there in his actions. When he flies, he isn’t left exhausted. He is able to hold his own again. It is nearly back to him, he knows, and yet for some reason, he has hesitated, has not welcomed it back and completed himself.

Crowley gives Castiel a once-over. He can’t see a difference, really, and he feels like he should. Once upon a time, he’s certain he could _tell_ , but he may be too human now for that.

Castiel takes on a change, looking alert. “I need to go.”

“What, now?” Sam asks.

“He’s calling me,” Castiel admits.

Crowley seems bored. “Now what?”

“We keep him distracted?” Sam suggests, then worries at his lower lip. “How do we get him to say yes?”

“You vastly underestimate how good I am at my job,” Crowley tells him. “Even the feathers aren’t above trickery--God knows _you_ should understand that. When was the last time he called for you? Does he do this often?”

Castiel looks almost sheepish as he says, “Yes. Every day, if not more.”

Sam stares at him and hesitates before he asks, “Why?” The looks he receives from both Castiel and Crowley--very different expressions though they may be--have him regretting it. “Alright. Nevermind.” He grimaces at the images that come unbidden to his mind.

“I’ll talk to him,” Crowley says. “Stay put.” His glare is aimed at Castiel and the angel slouches.

~

Dean is on him the second he arrives. “What?” he growls, feeling particularly frustrated although he isn’t certain he wants to examine why.

“Is that any way to speak to your king?” Crowley asks, brushing off his lapels.

“Maybe I should be king,” Dean says, noting the way Crowley eyes the knife in his hand surreptitiously. “I mean, demons already fear me.” He pauses for effect, gaze sharp as he takes in the sight of the crossroads demon. “Kill you and I’d probably have their respect, too.”

Crowley swallows and stands up a little straighter. “I never took you for the type,” he says, then adds, “A king, that is. Wanting to kill me…” He shrugs. “Well, who doesn’t?”

Dean chuckles. “Right on both counts, good on you.” He sets the knife down, fingertips brushing over handle, lingering as he pulls his hand away; the draw of the first blade is still so strong, but he is now strong enough in turn to handle it. “So, what did you want? If you _also_ want me to kill you, it can be arranged.”

It’s difficult to keep himself from staring at the blade, Crowley’s focus split between Dean and the jawbone. “Don’t be daft,” he says haughtily. “You know I’m not the suicidal type. You, on the other hand--” He gives Dean a once-over.

“You gonna ask me something or are you just here to tell me about myself?” Dean leans against the table and there is blood drying on the floor that Crowley is only just noticing; perhaps he _should_ offer the title to Dean Winchester if it means he never needs know _personally_ how this has happened.

Crowley feigns confidence. “I was just wondering how you were doing.”“Really,” Dean deadpans.

Clutching a hand to his chest, Crowley pulls out all the stops. “Of _course_. A change like this…” He gestures to Dean. “It takes some getting used to.”

Dean shrugs, smirks.

“Right.” Crowley shuffles. “Well, then. I guess I’m off.” He notes Dean’s expression ands adds, “Unless there was something you’d like to share with the class.” He spreads his arms in invitation.

Shifting, Dean doesn’t look at him. “Where’s the angel?”

Crowley frowns at him thoughtfully. “ _The_ angel?” he asks, as if he has no idea what Dean might be on about.

Dean turns angry and the emotion radiates from him. “ _Crowley_.”

The older demon waves his hand in the air, as if conjuring the memory. “Could you mean Castiel?” he asks and Dean’s jaw tenses. “Dead, as far as I know.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Burnt out,” he adds, gauging Dean’s reaction.

“Why should I believe you?”

Crowley purses his lips. “You haven’t been calling for him, have you? Praying to him?”

Dean’s whole body goes rigid, tension palpable. “Of course not.”

“Oh, right then.” A smirk plays at Crowley’s lips. “Ta-ta,” he says with a wave and he’s gone.

Dean punches a hole in the wall. “Damn it, Cas.” He shouldn’t care. He’s a demon and, on top of that, he’s seen Castiel die before. It isn’t _new_ , but he doesn’t like the thought of it. He’s lost his...plaything.

Why does it _hurt_? He shouldn’t hurt like this anymore.

~

The silence between them is tense and Castiel feels as if he should apologize. He already has, but it can never be enough.

Sam favors him with pitying smiles, but whenever the man looks as if he might say something, he clears his throat instead. Sam and Castiel spend much of the time making eye contact and quickly looking away, too afraid of their own histories to speak a word of so much as idle chit chat.

“He’ll say yes,” Crowley tells them without preamble.

Sam and Castiel both seem to let go of the breath they’d been holding.

Sam stares at him. “How do you know?”

Crowley smiles. “Trust me, boys.”

“You ready, Cas?” Sam asks.

Castiel shuts his eyes and breathes in. “Yes.” He draws his grace to him, siphoning it from heaven and gulping it down. It’s a rush he hadn’t been expecting after being so weak for so seemingly long, although it had been a mere blink in the history of his being. To his nearly human self, the past year or so had felt long indeed.

He is as whole as he can be without Dean Winchester.

~

“Dean.”

It’s a whisper that has Dean whipping around to look for its source. He’d given up calling for Castiel days ago now. It appeared the angel was truly gone.

He doesn’t speak, however, refusing to voice the weakness that’s been hit.

When he sees him, Castiel is smirking like he had years ago, back when they had first met and Castiel would make idle threats about throwing him back into Hell. _The good old days_ , he thinks. “Cas. Heard you were dead.”

Castiel looks up, away from him. “Are you so sure I’m not?”

Dean follows Castiel’s gaze and finds himself staring at stars again. It’s like a goddamn sign. “You’re here.”

“Am I? Or are you dreaming again?” There’s a glow about Castiel that feels familiar like a fading memory.

Maybe it feels like a dream. Maybe it feels like a game and Dean is interested in playing along. “Okay,” he says. “But I think if I were dreaming, you’d be naked,” he quips, wondering idly if the words will make it happen.

Castiel smirks--as close as he usually gets to a laugh--and steps forward. “Say yes,” he murmurs, his hand pressed to Dean’s cheek.

It’s Dean’s turn to leer. “To what?”

“To me.” Castiel kisses him then and there is a sensation that travels through Dean, inside and out. It is almost unpleasant, but the thrum of promise dances beneath his skin, too. 

The kiss is deep, as if they might just devour each other this way and it goes on. It becomes the whole of their two universes for the span of what feels to be lifetimes.

Then, there is a breath of hesitation, of caution, but Dean has given those up for the sake of his own sanity. “Yes,” he whispers into Castiel’s mouth, but it is there. It is consent.

The agreement has been made, and although Castiel does not want to betray this Dean, his loyalty is to the human who changed his world, not to this demonic aberration of him. Dean Winchester still has such potential to do great things and Castiel holds the demon against him, fingertips pressed to the nape of Dean’s neck.

A bright, all-consuming light takes them over and Dean feels like he’s on fire before he goes slack.

Castiel holds the body but he moves them before he restores life to it. With the sound of wingbeats, they are in Dean’s bedroom. He had died and came back here once already, but this time he will come back as he should be, not as the Mark had made him. Sam and Crowley are waiting for them, concerned and eager all at once. If Crowley’s interest seems particularly piqued, Castiel does not notice, so focused is he on the body of the righteous man.

The Mark of Cain glares at him as he places a hand to Dean’s face, the care in his touch indicative of all this means. There is doubt, worrying at him that he may fail as he has so many times in recent history.

That is not acceptable now, but his hand shakes and he steels himself as he summons his own grace, summons Dean’s soul and restores it to his body with his breath.

Castiel places a hand over Dean’s chest and the man’s heart pounds beneath his palm. Dean looks up at him and their eyes lock for a long moment before he glances over to his brother.

Crowley’s smile is bittersweet as he slips from the room.

Sam moves in close to see him and Castiel backs away. “I have to go.”

Sam turns to look at him but it’s Dean who finally speaks. “What? Why?”

“I made a deal,” Castiel admits. “To get my grace back.” He avoids eye contact.

“A _deal_?” Dean growls. “For what?”

“Whatever Metatron asks.”

“No.” Dean struggles to sit up. “ _No_. Fuck that.” His expression softens. “Cas…”

“I need to do this,” he says, and he’s gone with the flutter of wings.

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and the brothers give themselves a moment to catch their breaths, even if the seed of anxiety has already planted roots in them yet again.

“You okay?” Sam asks hesitantly. “Are you...you?”

Dean sighs, swiping a hand over his mouth. He nods, throat working as he attempts to vocalize any thought other than _Cas_. “Yeah,” he chokes out. “Peachy keen.”

Sam worries his lip, knowing what his brother must be thinking about, even if he’s sure their relationship has only grown more complicated now. “Maybe he’ll be fine.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah,” he says again. “Just like everyone else we’ve ever known.”

~

“You’ve got your grace back and your boy, too,” Metatron greets.

Castiel steels himself. “I agreed to make a deal and I’m here. What do you want from me?”

Metatron lets the suspense build for a moment. “No need to rush,” he says, stretching until his joints pop.

The dread that Castiel had expected has lessened, for Dean is whole and human and although he would love to be with Dean, he has betrayed too many. He will keep his deal with Metatron.

“Do they know you’re here? Does he?” Metatron asks, tilting his head.

Clearing his throat, Castiel nods. “I told them.”

“And did you say your goodbyes?” the voice of God asks earnestly.

“Yes, although I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.”

“You want to be with him,” Metatron says simply and Castiel, hesitating, nods. “Good.”

Castiel’s brows furrow. “What?”

“This is _progress_ , Castiel. It would be so dull to end it with you two playing your idiotic game of sacrifice and repression.” He makes a face. “Annoying, too. I think the audience was getting sick of it.”

With a frown, Castiel says, “I don’t understand. What do you want?”

“Isn’t it _obvious_?”

Castiel shakes his head and Metatron rolls his eyes.

“Your _story_!” Metatron gestures wildly. “You and Dean and your journey spanning Heaven and Hell and everything in between. Tragedy, comedy, drama, and blaspheming romance... I think it could be a bestseller, maybe even win an award or seven--with the right author, of course.” He’s grinning and Castiel’s continued confusion makes him huff in consternation. “I mean _me_.”

“You want our story?”

“I already know your story--enough that I can just make something up to fill in the _boring_ parts,” he’s smiling again. “I want the _rights_ to it, Castiel.”

“That’s it?” Castiel asks skeptically, and Metatron nods. He looks at him hard, uncertain how it can even be possible that this is the only deal he has to make. “Alright,” he agrees.

“Shake on it?” Metatron holds out his hand and as soon as Castiel has returned the gesture, he holds the other angel there. “Oh, and just one more thing.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. This must be it, the part where Metatron asks him for his life or worse. There’s no possible way it can go down so easily, but he cannot complain when Metatron has not yet asked for it. “What?”

“Cast me down,” Metatron says.

“What?” Castiel repeats.

Metatron sighs. “Come on, Castiel, it’s not that hard to understand. Let me go, cast me down-- let me-- let me go _live a human life_.” He pauses. “For real, this time. I can be a writer and those apes will eat it up.” His hand still holds Castiel’s. “We’re family, aren’t we? Do me a solid?” His eyes are large and pleading and Castiel almost feels sympathetic towards him.

“I don’t have the authority,” Castiel starts uncertainly.

Metatron waves a hand. “You’re _Castiel_. There isn’t an angel up here who doesn’t know who _you_ are. They owe you their freedom, Castiel, their home. How much of a threat could I be without my grace?”

Castiel hesitates. “I suppose.”

~

The arrangements are made and although the angels are suspicious of Castiel’s new decision regarding Metatron, they acquiesce to it. Many believe there to be no greater punishment than forcing Metatron to live the rest of his existence a lowly mud-monkey while others believe a stint of humanity will help him to realize his mistakes. Some still think it a mistake to have let him live, bitter at the tumble to Earth they had so recently taken.

Once all precautions are set, they release him from his cell.

“You’ll be human,” Castiel tells him.

Hannah is beside him and adds, “It will _hurt_.”

Metatron rolls his eyes. “I gave you all some new experiences, didn’t I? Some stories to tell?” He smiles fondly. “Nothing better than a good story. Right, Castiel?”

“Metatron,” Castiel says like a warning.

“I know, I know,” he waves Castiel off. To himself, he adds thoughtfully, “At the very least, it could be the next _Twilight_.”

Despite all that Metatron had siphoned into his mind, Castiel does not understand that reference.

**Author's Note:**

> By a certain someone's demand, there will be at least a short sequel. I'm certain you can guess why. (Also, comments give me life and I know my artist actually _deserves_ them. Like. Wow.)


End file.
